"Dark and Stormy Night" by Rebecca A. Morgan

That does sound a bit trite, I know. And every story that is

trite, unoriginal and trying desperately to be horrifying starts with this but this, I assure you, is not going to be like all the others. Not with such a pretty author. Yep, this is going to be the singularly most orig-

“Narrator?”

“Yes, Author?”

“The story? I don’t believe that you’re reading your lines anymore, Narrator… And do you know what happens to Narrators who misbehave?”

“Ah… No Author, I would have to say I don’t. And from the look on your face, for some reason I think I wish to go on not knowing.”

“Well then read your lines, don’t pontificate.”

“Ok… where was I… Oh! There I am…”

It was a dark and stormy night. The treetops were being tossed about, almost as if a giant had reached down and was ruffling their hair, like grandmas are wont to do at family reunions with their grandchildren, who wish she wouldn't.

“Well. Humph. If they don’t want me to, all they need to do is ask. I take offense to that line, dearie. You need to use something else as a comparison instead. I should take a switch to the author who wrote that.”

“Grandma! I really don’t need the interruptions! I’m trying to narrate this and you aren’t helping! Will you please be quiet?”

“Fine, but you really should…”

“Grandma!”

“Humph.”

Dark clouds chased their way across the black velvet of the night sky, and only a twinkle here or there showed of the stars. The moon had been swallowed by the night and the dog-

“Dog? I want a dog! Can I pulease, pretty please have a dog, mommy? Pretty please, with a cherry on top?”

“No, you may not! You’re allergic, and will you please stop interrupting me!?! I really don’t want to find out what happens to Narrators who interrupt stories!”

“Narrator…”

“Oh! Um… yes. Where was I…”

-and the dog was tied up tight next to a deciduous tree which was losing its leaves. It lined the gravel path, along with several others, that lead up to the old mansion on top of the hill. Footsteps, heard by the dog, came up that white lane and caused him to go into a frenzy of barking.

“Poppa, I hear barking.”

“Hush, child. Your mother is working.”

As they neared, the dog quieted and went to lie down in the midst of a pile of fallen leaves. Steps creaked, and a doorbell rang.

“Momma, should I go answer that?”

“If I’ve told you once, I’ve told you a thousand times, you’re old enough to answer that… that doorbell without asking me first!”

“Narrator!”

“Sorry!”

A deep bell toll filled the old house and overflowed into the surrounding area. Stifled giggling was distinctly heard, and the quick pitter-patter of little feet jumping off of the front porch. The front door was pushed open, with all the accompanying squeals and groans, and a tow-headed boy looked through the crevice he had made into the dark night.

“He-Hello? Wh-Who’s there?”
Giggling came from behind the bushes and he pounced.

“Ha! Gotcha!” The blond haired boy grinned gleefully at the twins.

“Hello, Trevis!” said the boy twin.

“Hello, Caius and… and…” Trevis’s face twisted as he tried to remember the girl’s name.

“Salem, you silly!” said Salem as she climbed out of the bushes.

“Come in, Momma’s reading a story! It’s great fun, although the author seems a might bit touchy about interruptions. So, shhh.”

“Shhh, yourself.” Salem answered pertly.

A door squeaked shut and footsteps sounded down the dark, dank, depressing hall. Portraits in dire need of a good dusting hung on the walls and knick-knack tables littered with knick-knacks cluttered the way. A voice was heard reading in the kitchen, and the footsteps headed towards it. The tow-headed boy burst into the kitchen in desperate need of a cleaning and cried, “Hello, Momma, lookit who I found! They’re my friends from school. You know, the Magical and Mystical school for Witches and Warlocks of All Ages? The MWA? I had asked them to come over for a slumber party, though I didn’t think they would be coming this late. You did say yes, right?” A worried look stole over his face and a note of doubt crept into his tone. “Momma, why do you look so strange? Momma?”

She (the narrator) turned towards me with puzzlement plain on her face, and asked, “Why is this script showing what’s going on in this room? And who are you, anyway? There’s no way you’re a traveling author as you told me earlier.”

I (the author) smiled and stretched before I said, with complete contentment, “That is a device which is called ‘A Marvelously Magical Story Maker for the Inept and Incompetent Authors.’ It’s rather handy and quite fun to use. I also happen to be the MWA’s new Superintendent. I thought this would be a good way to meet the students who go there.” I also had fun watching their faces bloom with understanding. I love my job sometimes.